


Cream of the Crop

by Ponderosa



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mozzie procures a getaway vehicle of which Neal is less than enthused. Most importantly, it's cold outside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cream of the Crop

Neal looks around the small space without bothering to mask his dismay. "This is the best you could come up with? Not exactly cream of the crop in getaway vehicles."

The truck rocks as Mozzie makes for the driver's seat. The metal buckle on the seatbelt clacks against the door as he eases behind the wheel. "May I remind you of the extremely short notice you gave me?" Adjusting the mirrors takes a minute, but they were on schedule so the pressure wouldn't hit for another hour.

"An ice cream truck in the middle of winter is on the flip side of subtle, don't you think?" Neal pokes through the nooks and crannies, opening then slamming shut the freezer beneath the sales window after letting a frosty gust of air blow out to make the space even more cold.

"Gift horse, Neal. Gift horse."

"An actual gift horse probably would have been a better choice."

"I'll keep that in mind for the next time you call me up at four in the morning and tell me you need something refrigerated before noon the next day. Oh right, horses don't have built-in refrigeration units." Mozzie glances at the dash, wishing that running the heater was an option, but Neal's target, whatever it was this time, was going to need to be iced ASAP; cranking the temp in here to a nice and toasty eighty-five would kill the job. Better the job than his toes, though. Mozzie shoves the seat back as far as possible to make the wait as comfortable as possible and wriggles his feet in his shoes, willing life back into the ten little piggies cryo-suspended in his favourite argyle socks.

"Cold?" Neal asks, coming to stand at Mozzie's elbow as he apparently decides that the truck is up to specs if not ideal.

"Possibly," Mozzie says, and Neal turns on a smile at the slow, sarcastic tone. Mozzie huffs, his breath a white vapour cloud of an exclamation point, but Neal takes it with the same ease as water on the proverbial duck's back. He always does. It's how they get along so well.

"We should pass the time," Neal suggests, and Mozzie's about to ask how when cold fingers slip straight down the front of his pants.

Mozzie inches up, back skidding halfway to the headrest. "Oh hey, that's your hand."

"I think you're right," Neal says, sounding amused, and the words go straight into Mozzie's skull a whole lot closer and _whisperier_ than he was in any way prepared for.

"What exactly is going on here?"

"Handjob, Moz. Go with it." Neal nuzzles closer, the chill tip of his nose skidding above the coil of Mozzie's scarf an instant before an open-mouthed not-quite hint of a kiss. "We'll warm up, pass the time, get rid of the ridiculous sexual tension we've been carting around for the last month that you can't even pretend you haven't noticed."

"Playing cards are for passing the time," Mozzie points out, but that's about all he really _can_ protest. Somehow, his knees splay a couple inches without him trying and he discovers his hand gripping the dangling ends of Neal's much pricier cashmere scarf. Neal doesn't really seem to mind. In fact, Neal's hand works a little lower in response, gets a firmer grip over the one part of Mozzie that's gone stiff in a way completely unattributable to the cold.

Neal's mouth finds Mozzie's, but the dry brush of his lips draws away before Mozzie can stretch towards a kiss. "I didn't bring any cards," he says, swinging a leg over Mozzie's to ease straight into Mozzie's lap with more grace than the kind of girls who do that sort of thing for a living.

"Fair enough," Mozzie manages in the scant time before Neal's mouth closes to his. He pushes Neal back suddenly, groaning when Neal's grip loosens, and the heavy look in his eyes blinks back to situational alertness.

Neal asks, "Problem?" even as his hand resumes its slow tugging, and Mozzie becomes aware of the soft rustle of Neal's slacks open and the bare heat of his cock.

The sparks in his nerves that zip straight to his brain, his unmentionables, and everywhere inbetween were not making it easy to think. "We're going to--oh shit--warm up the--holy moly--interior of the truck too much."

"Moz," Neal says, head tipped to the side, intent on convincing him to stop thinking and start paying attention to just how good it feels to have Neal's now very warm fingers wrapping around both their cocks. "Moz, it's winter. All we have to do is open the doors and windows."

"Right, of course. Carry on." Mozzie's agreement gets lost in that kiss he's been missing out on, and it's everything it should be for the start of a make-out session in an ice cream truck rented under questionable circumstances. In a word, it's _awesome_. He moans right into Neal's mouth, and he's helping before he knows it, frustrated a little by how much clothes they're bundled up in even though the icy slivers of air across his belly keep reminding him of just how freaking cold it is. Soon enough it could be fifty below and he wouldn't care because he's got Neal's hand moving in just the right rhythm and the slick mess of the kiss is getting sloppier than the final speeches at an award's show.

Mozzie certainly feels equivalently tipsy, all the way to the point when Neal somehow loses it first, the hot spill hitting him like a punch in the gut and a bolt of lightning all in one. He practically blacks out when Neal's grip turns as slippery as the kiss and then it's only half a dozen strokes before Neal hits a home run, his smile dragging towards Mozzie's cheek as Mozzie flops back in the driver's seat utterly dazed.

He's able to form complex thoughts just in time to see Neal scrape his hand clean on the edge of the seat. "That is not sanitary, Neal. No one is going to believe that's melted ice cream."

"In three hours and-" Neal checks his watch, "eighteen minutes, this truck is going to be on fire."

"That doesn't make it sanitary."

"Fire, Moz," Neal repeats, zipping them both up but not making any move to leave Mozzie's lap.

Despite a zillion things more that deserve saying, Mozzie wisely keeps his mouth shut. After all, Neal's as good a lap-warmer as a housecat. He even purrs.


End file.
